


Lydian

by sierraadeux



Series: all that jazz [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Jazz Club, Jazz Pianist Dan, M/M, Meet-Cute, Screenwriter Phil, Strangers to Lovers, and phil is simply very gay, dan is simply the biggest flirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22461022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux
Summary: When Phil needs to accurately depict a jazz club in one of his films, it only makes sense to experience one in real life.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Series: all that jazz [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616185
Comments: 33
Kudos: 94





	Lydian

**Author's Note:**

> the other day juliet said she was craving jazzy dnp on twitter and who am i if not someone who gives the people what they want

This is so not Phil’s scene. Granted, _any_ club isn’t really Phil’s scene - minus the occasional drag nights at his favorite gay bar that’s never too crowded, and never has that stifling _room packed full of intoxicated people_ vibe. But this jazz club is so beyond being anywhere _near_ Phil’s vibe. 

The room isn’t packed, it’s not overwhelmingly loud - just soft music and the quiet hum of the few patrons having their own conversations. It’s dark, which is similar to every bar and club Phil has ever been dragged out to, but it’s quite a small room and definitely does not have a dance floor. The room is more long than it is wide, almost like a hallway of sorts - a small bar to his left as he walks through, little café tables and armchairs lining his right. It all opens up to a small stage at the end of the room, just a wooden platform no more than thirty centimeters up from the wooden floor - incredibly different from the larger stage he’s used to at drag nights. 

There’s a few musicians on the stage, all with their respective instruments, though the sleek black piano to the left of the stage sits alone. The brick walls of the club turn into glass behind the stage, looking into a smaller room - Phil can’t quite tell what’s beyond the glass, but considering the smell and haze of the room he assumes it’s where they’re keeping the more expensive cigars. 

That’s another thing that is distinctly different about this club, the smoking. He’s been forewarned, so it doesn’t come as a shock, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t have a bit of a coughing fit when he first entered. It’s really not that bad, there’s only one couple sitting at one of the small tables with lit cigars. The rest of the people in the club seem to have only opted for drinks - but still, the tobacco and cigar scent lingers and he thinks he's safe to assume the haze is permanent from the club’s reputation. 

PJ had suggested the idea, obviously. He’s always the one to insist on complete immersion when they work together. Phil doesn’t necessarily disagree, it’s helpful and it lends for accurate writing that produces successful films, but Phil is a homebody - he doesn’t like new places. Especially when he’s alone, like he is now. The social anxiety squeezing at his chest probably wouldn’t be so present if PJ was by his side. But Phil is an adult, if PJ isn’t available to scout Phil should be more than capable of doing it on his own. 

He’s grateful that it isn’t crowded. He catches the bartender’s attention, which is incredibly easy, and settles on one of the local IPAs on tap that they suggest. He feels out of place enough, best not make it worse by attempting to order one of his go-to sugary cocktails. But he’s not trying to get drunk, he’s technically working, so a beer he can sip on is better than any of the classy harder drinks that he sees dotted along the tables and in the hands of the few people sat at the plush barstools. 

Phil stalls by the bar with his pint in hand. He doesn’t want to sit at the bar, too much pressure to make small talk with the bartender or anyone that might sit next to him. Nor does he think it’s a good idea to sit at any of the café tables across from the bar - he doesn’t mind the cigar smoke if it isn't in his face. So that leaves him with the seating in front of the stage. There’s a big leather couch facing the stage to his right, a coffee table and a few arm chairs around it, and a handful of love-seats to the left, each with their own small side tables. He settles on one of the love-seats, the one that’s most off to the side, so he can still observe the rest of the room’s atmosphere while being close enough to the stage to observe the band as well. 

The seat is oddly comfortable for its rough leather looks. Phil places his pint on the table next to him after sitting down, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He snaps a few sneaky pictures that are probably coming out way too dark to be useful - not necessarily sneaky because he’s trying to be, but because he doesn’t want to bring attention to himself. He shoots a few texts off to PJ, some initial observations and a jokey threat about secondhand smoke damaging his pure lungs, before opening his notes to jot down more detailed descriptions and observations. 

There’s three people on the small stage, mingling and playing random notes. It’s all very casual, Phil has very little musical knowledge but he can at least tell that they haven’t started their performance yet. Phil didn’t do much research into the house band, only taking down the address of the club and the nine o’clock performance time when PJ suggested it. He checks the time, five after nine - he tries not to think about how he’d rather be in bed. 

He makes note that none of the musicians are wearing all black, for some reason - probably from all the movies he’s seen - Phil has had it in his head that jazz bands wear all black. He’s wrong though, at least for this particular group, because the upright bass player is wearing a bright floral suit, the trumpet player is in a color-blocked romper - it reminds Phil of Stranger Things, and the saxophonist is in black and white checked trousers with a hot pink crop top. It’s all quite garish, but Phil loves color, so he’s not one to judge. It’s just… surprising for a jazz band. But he guesses that’s why he’s here, to observe a _real_ jazz club environment for this film they’re writing. They can’t just go off of what they’ve seen in other films, you can never trust how accurate they are - what’s real, what’s a stereotype. You have to see it, experience it yourself. Phil is reminded of why PJ insists on this as he watches the band interact. 

They’re casual, he can’t hear what they’re saying but he can tell that they’re joking around, laughing and making faces at one another as they… Phil assumes, tune their instruments? The bass player plucks at strings randomly, the saxophone and trumpet players pause their conversation every so often to simultaneously blow a similar note. 

Phil has no fucking clue what they’re doing as they mess with their mouthpieces and keep repeating the note, but he jots the observation down anyways. Maybe PJ will know, maybe Phil will muster up the courage to see if any of the musicians will chat with him after their performance. 

If Phil stays awake for that long, he yawns as he checks the time again. 9:10. 

“The man himself!” 

Phil looks up from his phone to see the bass player with a wide grin on their face. 

“On time as always, Daniel,” the trumpet player tuts. Phil is about as casual as a meerkat as he looks over his shoulder, to whom they’re addressing. A tall man, clad in all black is walking through the narrow club towards the stage. He’s walking at a pace Phil wouldn’t expect for someone that’s seemingly ten minutes late for his own performance. 

Assuming he’s the piano player, that is. 

Phil’s only correct guess of the night is confirmed as the tall man quips something back and makes no rush to step up to the piano. Phil jots a few things down in his notes as the piano player sits at the bench, opening the lid and tapping a key a few times. The trumpet and saxophone players blow the same note. 

**_band is casual_ **

**_maybe punctuality isn’t stressed_ **

**_piano player only one in all black_ **

Phil looks back up as the band begins to play. No introductions, no count off, the music just suddenly starts - another thing that seems different from all the media he’s consumed that include live music scenes. Phil assumed he would get the stereotypical deep voice counting off “ _one, and a two, and one, two, three, four”_ before the band started - he feels cheated of the experience almost. But he can’t even frown, not when the music is already making him feel the need to tap his feet. ****

That’s one thing about Phil. He’s not really a music person. He doesn’t hate music, but he doesn’t consume it in the way any of his friends do. He likes Muse, and a few other bands, but besides that he enjoys movie and video game soundtracks over what plays on the radio. The closest he ever gets to thinking critically of music is when he approves his music supervisor’s choices for his films. So maybe it shouldn’t come as much of a shock when he decides that he _really_ enjoys the music that’s coming from the band - it’s instrumental, but it has an inexplicable voice to it. 

He’s never listened to jazz before, beyond the thumping scales of the upright bass that seem to be in every movie that depicts a jazz club scene. But this band sounds nothing like those basic tracks, the horns feel like they’re speaking to each other, everything feels free and loose, there’s soul in it. 

_And the piano._ Even though the trumpet and saxophone blare back and forth at each other, Phil is more transfixed by the backing piano tune. Even with his limited knowledge of music, it sounds so technical, like it wouldn’t be easy to play. But the piano player looks effortless, his hands flying across the keys, passing over each other from time to time as he plays. Phil has never seen anything like it. 

It has everything to do with the playing, nothing to do with how attractive the pianist is. That’s what Phil tells himself, at least, as he stares. He notes how the music makes him feel, tapping away at his phone, before letting himself look back up and really _observe_ the man sat at the piano stool. 

Phil can ogle a hot man for a moment. As a treat. 

He looks very casual as he plays. His shoulders are back, bouncing a bit as he plays. His head moves back and forth with the music, so slightly that if Phil wasn’t staring - which he is - he probably wouldn’t catch the movement. The only giveaway that he’s actually concentrating, and the music isn’t just flying out of his fingers magically, is the way his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth and a dimple pokes into his cheek as he focuses. 

Phil thinks it’s adorable. His eyes pass across the whole stage, making note of how the musicians seem to converse with each other - silently with small nods and looks, but also through the music. There’s a whole call and response thing going on - they make it seem so simple, they must practice together a lot. He picks his beer up off the table next to him and takes small sips as he watches the band, pretending like that’s what he’s doing when he’s really mostly looking at the pianist. 

Phil’s notes are very important. Only the most important and crucial observations are written down. They’re for their film after all, and Phil takes work seriously. So don’t ask him about how the list seems to take a shift as he makes his way through his beer, the band making their way through more songs. 

**_pianist has brown curly hair_ **

**_it looks soft_ **

**_dimple_ **

**_pianist’s shirt and trousers look black, but have sparkly silver reflects_ **

**_last observation made after he sat back during sax solo, catching the light_ **

**_nice shoulders... broad shoulders_ **

**_brown eyes, maybe, lighting isn’t great_ **

**_big hands_ **

**_very big hands_ **

**_long fingers_ **

Phil blushes, catching himself as he taps into his notes with one hand, drink in the other. It’s only half full now, he puts it down. He’s supposed to be working, observing the band and club, _not_ thirsting. _Definitely not thinking about those long, long fingers._

Phil forces his eyes off the pianist, looking around the room instead. He takes note of everyone’s reactions, their body language. More people have trickled in, unnoticed by Phil until now - he might be doing a pretty shit job of doing this research. Blame the hot piano player and Phil’s one track mind. 

He manages to keep his eyes away from the left side of the stage for a decent amount of songs, only looking back when a bouncing tune starts up from the piano. Phil watches with furrowed brows as the bass player leans their bass up against the wall, and the trumpet player puts their trumpet down - both stepping off the stage and walking towards the bar. The pianist is still playing though, and the saxophonist is going strong. It’s confusing, but Phil likes the tune, it sounds somewhat familiar but he can’t quite place it. 

It’s much harder to keep his eyes off the pianist when there’s only two people on stage playing. It’s even harder when it becomes one, the saxophone player setting down their instrument - mirroring the rest of the band. 

The pianist goes off of his repeating tune, playing something similar to what the saxophone was just playing. Phil can’t help but stare at those big hands at this point. They’re so confident, so sure, they don’t shake or hesitate at all. It makes Phil feel a bit dizzy, and he knows it isn’t from the small amount of alcohol in his system. 

It’s over all too soon, the song getting softer, the pianist trailing off. He stands, his height exaggerated by the small stage for all of two seconds before he steps off, headed for the bar as well. 

Phil’s legs are connected to something - probably not his brain, probably actually his dick - something that tells him to stand up and walk over to the bar. And in the least Phil Lester move ever, he actually listens. 

Phil doesn’t do this. Not normally, not ever really. So he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind as he steps up beside the piano player. 

“I really liked that last song, what was it?” 

Yeah, that’s a smooth pick up line. 

The other man turns towards Phil. He’s barking out a loud laugh that feels so out of place for their surroundings, it’s too loud for the calm and quiet feeling of the club. Phil enjoys the laugh too much, and is too distracted by the way the brown eyes in front of him are crinkling at the corners, to let the panic set in that the man in front of him is laughing. At Phil. 

Phil must have a deer in the headlights look in his eyes, because the pianist’s eyes go wide for a moment before settling on a much softer look. 

“You’re not joking are you?” His voice is soft, but deep. A bit posh if you ask Phil. Phil shakes his head. The pianist huffs out a laugh, leaning closer to Phil with his elbow on the bar. “You obviously don’t come here often then, that was Take Five.” 

“Oh?” Phil doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does. 

“It’s a jazz standard...” the pianist explains, raising his brows. 

Phil must look even more confused because the other man laughs again. Phil notes that he has not one, but two dimples. One in each cheek. Phil, objectively, thinks they would be the perfect spot to plant kisses. 

“So you _definitely_ don’t come here often.” He taps his fingers against the bar, like he’s playing along to the soft music overhead. Phil does _not_ think about big hands and long fingers. He does not. 

He does find his voice though, “No, not really my scene. I’m actually here doing research.” 

“Oh, yeah?” one of the piano player’s brows raises, his intrigue piqued. 

“Yeah. Um actually…” Phil bites his lip, not knowing where to look if he’s too intimidated to look into the other man’s eyes, but too horny for his own good to look down at the bar where his hand was still tapping. He settles on the two freckles on the side of his cheek. “You wouldn’t happen to have a second to maybe answer a few questions for me?” 

The pianist makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, his tapping stops. Phil looks from his cheek to his eyes, catching how clearly the other man is looking him up and down. He feels his face flush, definitely way redder than the pink it’s been. 

“We’ve only got a few minutes of break, stick around after the rest of the set and I’m all yours.” He winks. 

Phil narrowly stops his jaw from falling to the floor, he doesn’t stop his eyes from bulging though. Phil Lester, king of keeping his cool. 

The pianist coughs. “I mean… you can ask me anything.”

“Oh! Uh, thank you so much! I’m Phil, by the way.” 

“Dan.” 

“Dan,” Phil likes the way the name feels on his tongue. He thinks he’d like the way his tongue would feel on- “can I buy you a drink before you go back up? For the great playing.” He cringes at his own awkwardness, but Dan chuckles. 

“I only drink water during performances, unlike my mates here,” he raises his voice as he gestures behind Phil, to the other members of his band, all carrying large pints of beer back to the stage. “And the drinks here are free for me anyways, but I’m usually starving after we’re done if you’re serious about the gesture. There’s a great sushi spot a few doors down.” Dan bites his lip and shrugs, it’s the first time Phil’s seen anything but confidence radiating off the man. “My usual’s cheaper than a beer here anyways,” he adds in a small voice. 

That’s like, borderline date territory… Phil tries to push that thought down, smiling and nodding his head at a more timid looking Dan. “I’d very much like that, Dan.” 

“Me too.” Dan grins from ear to ear, dimple returning. 

The bartender interrupts their quiet eye contact, passing Dan a glass of water. 

“Alright, well I’ll catch you on the flip side,” Dan says as he raises the glass before walking off, back up to the stage. 

The second half of the band’s set goes much of the same, Phil staring at Dan and making minimal notes in his phone. The only change is that Dan looks back every so often. He doesn’t miss a beat as he turns his head out to the room at Phil instead of at the rest of his band. Phil would feel embarrassed getting caught staring, but with the way Dan is looking back at him, he doesn’t feel so caught out. With the soft lighting above the stage, Dan’s pink cheeks shine. 

Phil finds himself getting lost in the music, and Dan, over the next hour - finishing his beer and sending his mess of notes off to PJ in a text. 

He’s brought back to reality by Dan’s voice. 

“Thank you. I’m Daniel Howell and this has been The Void.” His voice is deeper, it’s spoken slowly, so much different to how his voice had just sounded with Phil an hour ago. He plays something far too complicated for Phil to follow his hands’ movements as the saxophone and trumpet players blare their horns - the room filling with a loud cacophony of music and the soft clapping from everyone in the room.

Phil’s ears ring a little once the music and clapping stops, but it’s easy to tune out as he stands up and looks over at Dan gesturing towards him to his band mates with a bright smile. He doesn’t have a moment to register their reactions as Dan is striding towards him. 

“Offer still stands?” Dan asks, biting at his lip. 

“Of course.” 

Dan leads the way, taking them out of the hazy jazz club and onto the city street. Phil’s ears adjust from the calm and quiet club to the loud and busy London streets. He doesn’t check his phone, but he guesses it’s past eleven, the streets are alive in a way Phil rarely sees. He’d much rather be tucked up in bed with a book, or on the couch in his pajamas playing Apex Legends, than go out on a Thursday night. But he’s quite enjoying himself. 

Dan leads him around the corner, there’s a comfortable silence between them. Phil watches out of the corner of his eye as Dan pops the buttons of his shirt sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. He doesn’t feel like he needs to rack his brain for something to say, there’s no need for small talk. Phil is absolutely thriving off of the energy between them. 

“Before you say anything, I promise I’m not brining you to a murder dungeon,” Dan says as he stops in front of an alleyway. 

“That sounds like something a murderer would say.” Phil laughs. 

Dan just winks and nods his head towards the alley. Phil has done a lot of stupid things in his life, but following Dan down that alley isn’t one of them. Dan brings them down a set of metal stairs, a hidden storefront at the bottom of them. He pulls open the wrought iron door, holding it open for Phil with a smile. 

“After you.” 

“Thank you.” Phil steps through and his rational brain switches off completely when he feels a _big,_ gentle hand just barely on his back. It stays there as they wait for the hostess and as they walk to the small booth in the corner. It only leaves as they’re seated - sliding into opposite sides of the booth. Phil misses it the second it’s gone. He looks up over the menu and smiles at Dan, Dan is already smiling back at him. 

_Should this feel so easy?_ Phil wonders as he scans the menu. It’s too good to be true that Dan so easily picked up what Phil was not-so-obviously putting down. But this felt _very_ much like a date, and not just a stranger offering to buy a jazz pianist sushi in exchange for picking his brain. 

Dan orders a glass of rosé and a sweet potato tempura roll and, against Phil’s better judgement, Phil also orders a glass of wine and a California roll. He’s quite intimidated by the vast menu, so he sticks to what he knows, he’s been doing enough branching out for the day. 

“I was kidding, by the way. I’ll pay for mine,” Dan says once the waiter walks away. Phil shakes his head, he would buy Dan the whole damn menu. 

Dan looks down at the table, drumming at the dark wood with his fingers. “I was just trying to find a way to get you to take me out.” There’s that shining pink blush on his cheeks again as he looks back up at Phil through his eyelashes. “Hopefully it worked.” 

“It worked.” Phil is honestly, quite shocked he can form sentences with the way Dan is looking at him. He decides to not overthink it, he doesn’t need to question how or why he got here. Or how the stars were aligning so perfectly for him, placing this gorgeous man who seems to be reciprocating his feelings right in front of him. 

“You’re a right flirt, aren’t you?” he teases as Dan is biting at his lip - this time _not_ in a nervous way or out of concentration. 

“Isn’t that the whole jazz musician thing,” Dan stops his tapping to wave his hand around in the air, “sultry, seductive, take you home type.” Dan’s voice is back down to that slow, deep tone he had on stage and it has a very significant effect on Phil. 

Phil quirks a brow. “Is that what you’re like?” he tries to come across as smooth, but his voice squeaks a bit with the question. 

Dan laughs, that same loud cackle from the club before. He shakes his head, “No, not at all.” 

Phil huffs out a laugh, “Oh, well I’ll just be going then…” he pretends like he’s getting up from the booth and Dan reaches across the table to grab at his arm. When Phil looks at Dan he’s met with an exaggerated pouty face. 

“I’m only joking,” Phil says as he settles back in his seat. He grabs at Dan’s hand when he takes it off Phil’s arm. His hand is big and warm and _soft,_ and Dan stretches his long fingers out before slotting them between Phil’s. Phil loves the way Dan’s eyes crinkle, he loves how the lighting in the restaurant reveals the tiny freckles under his eyes. 

“So what kind of jazz musician are you then, if not sultry and mysterious?” 

“Oh, I’m definitely mysterious,” Dan snorts, squeezing Phil’s hand in his. 

As Dan tells Phil about himself - twenty-eight, queer, professional jazz musician, lives in London with one of his bandmates and her two cats, Gemini - their wine is brought over and Phil starts to notice how Dan softly taps along Phil’s knuckles to the quiet music of the restaurant. 

They sip at their wine one handed, only breaking apart when their sushi rolls arrive. Dan helps Phil with his chopsticks - it’s a complete fail, Phil’s shocked they haven’t been kicked out of the small shop with how many times Dan has shouted “ _Phiiiiiil!”_ after he does it wrong again. Phil pops his bits of sushi in his mouth with his fingers, and Dan just laughs at him, expertly dipping his own rolls in soy sauce and wasabi with his chopsticks. 

Phil tells Dan about himself through mouthfuls of sushi - thirty-two, gay, screenwriter at the indie film company he started with his best friend, lives in London with his fish, Aquarius - it should be gross, but they’re both talking with their mouths full and neither of them seem to mind. 

Dan is funny and attentive and kind. He says exactly what he’s thinking. Sometimes he’s loud, sometimes he’s soft and quiet. He’s flirty and confident, but bashful when Phil compliments him.

When he takes a particularly good bite of sweet potato roll he moans, too loudly and too pornographic for a small sushi restaurant, but he does it anyway. Phil has a hard time deciding whether to look at Dan’s eyes, his soft curls, his hands, or the bit of exposed chest from the two buttons he’s undone on his shirt, so he looks at it all. Phil drinks his rosé and also all of Dan. 

“You were supposed to be asking me about jazz, weren’t you?” Dan asks after their empty sushi plates have been taken away and replaced with a green tea ice cream and two spoons. 

Phil giggles, “Sure, yeah, that’s why I came up to you.” Phil does technically have a lot of questions about jazz that could use answers if he wants to report anything good back to PJ, but he can't seem to care about any of them when he's looking at Dan. 

“You’re something else, _Phil_ …” 

“Lester,” Phil supplies. 

“Howell,” Dan says around a spoonful of ice cream. He absolutely does not need to drag his tongue across the spoon after pulling it out of his mouth, but he does it anyway. Despite what Dan says, he absolutely is the sultry, seductive type of jazz musician - and, oh, how Phil wants to take him home. 

So he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you're familiar with a certain ivy and somehow recognize how the jazz club i wrote is suspiciously like the owl shop and the sushi place is suspiciously like sushi on chapel...shhhhhh...all of my knowledge of jazz/jazz culture is from my music degree (shoutout to my jazz prof never thought i'd use your lectures for phanfiction huh) and many nights at jazz clubs in and around the city of said ivy, haha.  
> But really, I actually _really_ enjoyed writing this and (spoiler, well i guess not really you can see the series) I'm excited to write more in this 'verse eventually as a few little one shots that are all connected.
> 
> And aaaaaa look at this lovely[art](https://twitter.com/heylookmaimgay/status/1223647127257006080?s=20) Juliet made !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Jazzy Dan rights!!!


End file.
